A Writer's Necklace
by Pyrex Shards
Summary: Trying to find a way to break the ice between himself and someone whom Arnold had discovered he had a yearning for, was a hard thing made doubly hard the day before The Feast of Saint Valentine.


_A Writer's Necklace  
a Hey Arnold fanfic by Pyrex Shards_

Strolling through the mall and trying to find something that would express the way she made him feel, Arnold walked with this hands in his pockets and idled through the throng of people, mostly couples, hand in hand, arm in arm, looking happy that they had either love or something close to it.

All Arnold had with him was his thoughts of Helga, and a lovesick heart leading him along like a hyperactive puppy dog on a leash. Looking at the people, and seeing the ads in the storefronts for diamond necklaces and chocolates, made that little furry creature bark and scratch against his ribcage. But it wasn't a bad pain, no. It was somewhere between warming and yearning with each little claw that was rooted in thoughts of her that bubbled up from his brain and raced through his fantasies.

The smile that graced Arnold's lips, against all odds, as he continued on his mission, made him look to bystanders like he was just another teen whom hardly understood the core of his motives. It was the mystery behind the driving force that a young woman is to a young man.

He wanted to see Helga again, and see her smile. She hadn't been to school the week before, and no one said anything to him. Arnold stood out of the rumor mill for personal reasons. He'd seen people whispering, he'd Heard Helga's name in those whispers. But he just decided that he didn't want to seem interested, he didn't want to push. His romantic inclination towards Helga G. Pataki was just that, an inclination that he never followed through with because of mistaken beliefs that Lila or Rhonda, Nadine or even Sheena may have been the one for him.

But he always swayed back towards the girl that was central to his reality. Helga. And the last time he saw her, she was forlorn, withdrawn, and didn't even bother to insult him the last day he saw her. He wanted to tread carefully and do this right. He figured he'd have one try, only one, and that would be it. He would offer something token-like to Helga, perhaps look into her eyes, and she would kiss him on the cheek, perhaps on the lips…

Arnold stumbled as he almost ran into the corner of something. He righted himself and brought his hand to his other arm to nurse the spot that he had bumped. He looked beside him at what it was he had hit; the corner of a booth in the center of the mall. He looked around, a feeling of embarrassment creeping up his neck, but as he looked around he noticed no-one seemed to care. They didn't know why he was there, they didn't know whom he was thinking about, and so with the embarrassment proved irrational, Arnold stopped and looked at the display before him…

…And stared a little more, with his mouth turned into a curious twitch.

Before him were tables arranged in a square. On those tables were glass cases, and resting upon faux velvet within those glass cases, were column after column of glistening silver and gold chains. He had run into a cheap jewelry booth.

He looked up at a little sign that simply said all "all Jewelry half-off" and in his mind he saw "all cheapskates shop here." He sighed and looked at his watch. It read Eight-thirty. The mall would be closing soon, and he didn't have anything. His heart sank, the little puppy within started to whine, and he looked over at another store, selling traditional cards and trinkets.

Things seemed to go against him, reality always did this, he knew. Some things just were never meant to work out. Arnold put his hands in his pockets, and then before he turned away, a single glimmer of a silver flash caught his eye. It was brilliant and it called to him. He stopped and turned his head to look down at the display case, then kneeled a little closer.

It was a simple necklace with a sterling silver chain that would fit around her neck easily enough. It had a clasp so he could do the honors while she tilted her head forward and smiled. On that necklace was a small, gleaming silver approximation of a writer's quill pen. Its silver feathers were in a permanent sway as if the writer was fast at work making poetry, or making characters dance in some ancient novella.

It would make its home between her sweet breasts, over her precious heart where it would protect her, and give her a minder that would always be there for her and protect her soul.

It was the only thing that he could find that meant anything. Cards were so overused, chocolates were cliché, and poetry escaped him. Being at a mall, and trying to find a way to break the ice between himself and someone whom he had discovered he had a yearning for, was a hard thing, made doubly hard that Saturday, the day before The Feast of Saint Valentine.

He couldn't get the flash of silver out of his mind, and as he stared down at the glass box that held a symbol that was calling out to him, he drew the attention of a tall brunette standing on the other side of the table. "See something you like?" The woman asked in a strange, friendly, yet almost Brazilian accent.

Arnold looked up and at the woman. She was old, tall and thin, and she smiled as she looked at him with disarming dark green eyes. Her smile made Arnold smile, and the reservations he had were forgotten. He enthusiastically stabbed the glass with his finger, and pointed at the little necklace with the quill charm that sat between a necklace with a silver treble clef, and another with a gold peace sign.

The next day was slightly cold yet very sunny. Not the best February fourteenth, he thought, but there was perpetual warmth in his heart as he walked down the sidewalk to Helga's house. There were butterflies in his stomach that fluttered around like they wanted to escape through his mouth. There would be a fight, he knew. Helga was a bully, and Arnold was throwing himself in front of her path, indeed, right in front of her own door.

So he ran through the scenario. He would knock on the door, and Helga would answer, he hoped. If Helga didn't answer he would very politely ask for her. She would show up at the door, and spit "Whatdoyawant Football Head!" like she always had, even at seventeen. But he would see strange, almost poetic hopefulness in her blue eyes that would betray her exterior.

He would ignore the venom from her mouth, and talk to those eyes, and then when the time was right, he would watch the reflection of the necklace in those sapphire orbs. Then perhaps, things would be different. Helga would be happy. Arnold could see just how far the two of them could go, how far they could walk together, and how far she could fly with those wings that he saw when he discovered just who that anonymous fourth-grade poet really was.

Tucked gently within a tissue in his pocket was the necklace. He thought perhaps he could have her close her eyes. But would she trust him enough to stand behind her with a small metal chain? Was her neck ticklish? Would he have to be content with watching her put the necklace on. Would she even accept the necklace, or would she instead throw it at him and call him a pathetic loser.

Would she? Would she? Would she?

Arnold stepped forward a little harder with each step and shook his head. They were just nervous thoughts, demons trying to keep him away from the ultimate goal. He had to jump off the cliff. Of course he didn't know what was in store for him at its base. But he found as his heart started racing when he rounded the next corner, the cliff was worth it.

Until he reached her house, and saw, through the empty windows to the vacant rooms on the inside, that the cliff was just an illusion after all.

That was the reason she had the frown, and the reason she wasn't at school. While Arnold was searching his feelings, Helga was packing her things, while Arnold was coming to conclusions, her belongings were being loaded into a truck, and while he was deciding upon a course of action, Helga was on her way out of the neighborhood, and into the recesses of his memory.

Arnold growled in frustration as his heart burst into a pool of muscle and blood. He cried out in profanity and pain as he yanked the chain out of his pocket, and felt little relief from the knife of his emotions that stabbed him constantly as he threw the little silver treasure against the wall of the house that once held within its confines someone that could very well have been his one and only.

Time progressed and as it did, Arnold's yearning for Helga faded away into his memories, but it never left him. The sterling silver writer's quill stayed in his mind, where it rested there amongst the cement, and images of Helga's old house. He'd walk by there every now and then, and his mind's eye reminded him of what could have been. Seasons passed and even though the quill was gone, probably stolen, washed away, or trashed, the house remained.

Time did as it usually did, washed things away, made the memories jumble together into more compact feelings. A newlywed and very pregnant couple moved in to the old Pataki residence, and life just rolled on. Everyone forgot about Helga. Everyone but Arnold and Phoebe.

He never found out where they had gone, just that they had packed up and left hillwood. Even Phoebe didn't know. It was a deep mystery that chilled his heart, and he never forgot about her, the bully poet.

College swept by, and with it brought trips to the Nile delta, ancient Roman cities, and Mayan ruins. Artifacts were found. They were made of tarnished silver and gold that glimmered within his green eyes. They were intricate little symbols that looked back at him through the ages. Some found amongst ancient burial sites professed undying love, and those Arnold treasured the most. They reminded him of that necklace that he long ago tried to give, in something close to love, to someone who may have loved him.

They were private little conversations in a minutes worth of eternity that Arnold found inspiration in when he wrote his college thesis that earned him praise as a prodigy in the science of archeology. The countless museums treasured his findings and sometimes proudly displayed his picture alongside them. And he discovered time and time again, as he stood in front of a collection in a museum, staring at the gleaming and shimmering gold and silver artifacts that reminded him of a cheap piece of jewelry he once saw at a mall that shined just as bright, that he was really not alone.

It was a discovery that proved perpetual, even after another decade, when Arnold stood tall and golden gray, looking into the glass display cabinet holding his latest archeological feats. It was smaller than its predecessors, housed within the corner of a darkened and cavernous space on the second floor of the Houston Museum of Fine Art.

Inside the security protected glass cabinet, underneath proud lighting, sat golden figures, necklaces, and rings. They were artifacts of a tomb from a newly discovered but long forgotten culture that was the subject of Arnold's life work. The people who made those artifacts were the ancestors of the green eyed people of San Lorenzo, that he knew for sure. The labels put there for the convenience of the museum's patrons repeated that theory over and over while Arnold read their basic explanations with an amused face.

He stood there and watched for an hour while people milled about and looked curiously at the artifacts of ancient humanity while giving him space. A few people whispered amongst themselves, with hushed conversations that started with something that almost sounded like "hey, isn't that…"

But Arnold didn't care. He shifted his feet again and watched the way the polished artifacts shimmered in the artificial light, sparking like they had when he first discovered them under layers of long undisturbed dirt amongst the well preserved bones. It was as if each of them had their own shine, reflecting their ancient conversations that they had with their past owners, and while they spoke to him, he knew those words were not for him.

He inhaled a long breath. There was only one time where the words were meant for him, and it was so long ago, underneath the dirt of his own history, and all of his archeological digs, all of his papers and triumphs, would never dig that sparkle back up.

Until, something caught his eye.

It was there for just a single moment then it was gone. First he thought it was just a trick of the light. Amongst the gold necklaces were traces of silver, minute but there if one looked right. This one was like a silver flash. Perhaps it was the other display case. He glanced to his right. No, more gold, no silver.

Then, he realized as he noted the way the reflections changed, that he wasn't alone. He let himself focus upon the glass, and the faint images it was reflecting. There it was, a subdued silhouette in the shape of a human being, blocking the reflection of the display on the other side of the room. The silhouette shifted, and Arnold felt a warm hand upon his shoulder.

"Arnold?" The haunting feminine voice from his past asked in hopeful curiosity. Arnold turned around and green eyes met blue.

Her blonde hair, untouched by aged gray, a little less vibrant but still golden yellow, flowed behind her head. Little wrinkles appeared on her face from a warm smile. She was a little taller than him, and her hands were tucked into the pockets of her blue jeans. She had a pink jacket, the color being almost her trademark. It made her seem younger.

And when that familiar silver sparkle met his eyes again, he looked down at the collar of Helga's v-necked black shirt, to see a glimmering silver necklace above her skin…

…With a writer's quill hovering over her heart.


End file.
